Snowfall
by Obsessive Child
Summary: He bled out on the snowy grounds of the Night's Watch, not expecting to wake again. But he did wake, and it was not in the forlorn outreaches of the Wall, but back at Winterfell, where King Robert Baratheon was a day's ride away… Old Nan had always warned against changing fate, but how can Jon refuse a chance to prevent the game of thrones?
1. Prologue

A/n: This came about because I wanted to know what big deal concerning Game of Thrones was and so I went and got the books. Although they're not my favorites, they did give me a bunch of plot bunnies which won't leave me alone. I've decided to flesh one out so GoT will finally leave me in peace.

We're pretty sure that Jon does not die at the end of Dance with Dragons, but considering there are no more books and I can't very well say which direction GRRM is planning to take this, it's a fitting place to end/begin. Let's just say his resurrection goes a little differently than planned. And as important as Jon being at the wall is (especially if R+L=J), I'm sure all of us Jon fans wanted to see him participate in the war of Westros. So onmarch and off we go, and remember that not all changes will be for the better…

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~oOoOoOo~

_**Prologue**_

~oOoOoOo~

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Jon awoke with a gasp.

His eyes snapped open, but he could see nothing but a strange wash of blue, red, and beige above him. His vision was hazy. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on his back, though he was sure that he'd fallen…

"Jon! Jon! Oh thank the gods you're alright!" The blur of red and beige sharpened to a face, and it became apparent that it was a person leaning over him. It was Robb. He had a relived smile on his face.

…forward. He'd fallen forward when he'd been stabbed and the cool kiss of steel had spread that horrid numbness across his body. His heart still thudded at the thought. His brothers. His sworn brothers. They had slain him.

Just as Robb had been slain.

"Am I dead?" he asked weakly, moving to push himself to a sitting position. Robb had to quickly move back to avoid having their faces bump into each other. They were on a bridge of some sort, surrounded by snow and horses and men. Father's company. Even Father was there, along with Bran, looking at him with no small amount of concern on their faces.

"What—no Jon! By the gods, no! As if I'd let you die that easily."

Jon furrowed his brows, "What?"

"You only fell off your horse, idiot," Robb replied with a laugh, but Jon could see genuine worry behind those blue eyes.

"I—what?"

This was all very confusing. He did not understand. If he were not dead, then was Robb alive? But it was impossible. Was this a dream then? But he'd never had a dream so clear.

"Has the fall turned you into an imbecile too, Snow?" Theon Greyjoy snorted from his place atop his palfrey.

Grey eyes snapped to the ward of the Starks, narrowing into slits of chilled ice. _Traitor_. If this was a dream, what was _he_ doing in it? Jon itched for Longclaw.

Theon stiffened, a touch of hesitation flashing across his face, as if he'd sensed something of Jon's mood.

Ned Stark appeared before anything else could transpire, bending on one knee and holding out a hand, "Are you feeling alright, Jon?"

His voice was soft, his expression gentle. Jon couldn't understand. Dazedly he took the hand, and allowed his father to pull him up. It felt surreal.

"Give the boy a minute," Cayn said with a hint of amusement in his voice, "per'aps he be needing some time to get orientated. Sounds to me like 'e hit his 'ead pretty hard on the ways down."

And then they all began talking at once, telling and teasing him about how he'd suddenly stopped in the middle of the bridge and toppled right down from his horse. Jon's ears were ringing. The only ones who didn't speak were Father and Bran. Bran. Jon looked to his younger brother, who smiled at the glance as if Jon had just answered some secret inquiry. Bran. Somehow he felt as though that distinction was important.

Twenty of Father's guardsmen. Father himself, Robb, Theon, him. That in itself was not so unusual, but _Bran_. This all seemed very familiar somehow. This scene. As if it had been etched into his mind.

And suddenly, he knew where he was. He knew what memory this was.

He looked sharply to Desmond and Alebelly, who were, sure enough, carrying twin bundles which could only be direwolf pups. Atop Robb's horse was Grey Wind, left alone for the moment as his master had dismounted.

But it didn't make any sense. Why would he be dreaming about this now, when he on the edge of death? Or was he dead already? And even then, he hadn't fallen off his horse. Why was it different now?

And it did not feel like a dream.

The chatter was confusing, but not in the way that dream talk was. If he concentrated hard enough he could understand what every single person was saying. The wind was stinging cold, but it was not the numbness of death, but rather the familiar wakeful chill that he remembered from Winterfell.

But Robb, Father, Bran, Theon, Father's company, they had to be dreams.

_Or maybe, maybe it's me who was the dream._

Dare he believe it?

Jon was not sure if he should allow that line of thought. Dare he think that the disastrous wars of Westeros never occurred and that all of it was simply one long nightmare? And yet he did not know how he could dream himself an entire two years of memories.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ Ygritte whispered in his ear.

His head was pounding.

He pushed past Robb, grabbed the reigns of his horse and hoisted himself up in one fluid motion. His body moved almost automatically, because somewhere in the back of his scattered mind, he knew what he had to do. He turned his horse back the way they had come from, and stirred him into a gallop.

"Wait, Jon!" Father called, and for once Jon ignored him.

Jon finally allowed his horse to slow again when they neared the corpse of the direwolf they'd left behind. He dismounted silently as a show of respect for the dead mother. He heard his father's company ride up behind him, but that was not where his focus lay.

He waded through the snow to where he had found Ghost the first time, and sure enough, he found the albino direwolf again. Except this time the lone but mighty creature was not breathing ragged breaths, or even any breaths at all.

This time the white direwolf was well and truly dead.

_Oh, Ghost_, he thought, as he knelt by the great white wolf and ran a shaking hand through his fur.

Somehow, somehow he knew, although he could not for the life of him figure out where the words came from.

_A life for a life._

Ghost's, for his. Jon was alive when he should not have been, and Ghost was dead where he should have lived.

He swallowed.

"Is it…?" Bran asked timidly, breaking the silence as his pony trotted up to the redhead's half brother.

Jon raised his head to stare at Bran. Bran, who might really be alive. Bran, who could still walk. His mouth felt dry and his eyes suspiciously itchy. Father had joined them. And Robb. _Gods_, Robb. And even Varly, Desmond, the rest of the company of twenty.

Could they really be alive?

Did he really have a… a second chance?

Bran shifted uncomfortably atop his seat, "Jon?"

For a moment Jon could only look at Bran in confusion, not quite understanding his question, but then he remembered what Bran had asked just seconds before. It felt like a lifetime.

"No he's—" Jon began, only to stop in hesitation. He looked down at the curled up form at his feet. Ghost. Lifeless.

His family lived again, but it was not without its price.

His mood became more solemn, and somberly he gathered the albino direwolf's broken body and hugged him closely to his chest. He had never wanted this fate for Ghost. Jon doubted he'd ever find as loyal and as trustworthy a companion.

If—if Ghost really had traded his life for Jon's, Jon could think of no greater debt he owed to his most faithful wolf. He truly did not deserve Ghost.

"He's dead," Jon said quietly. He turned to Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. His Father. Truly alive? It was too much to bear thinking about at the moment. Jon told himself to go one step at a time. "Lord Stark, if it is possible, I would like to cremate this mighty creature… and his mother. They do not deserve to be eaten by whatever is out here."

There was a moment of silence.

"Please," Jon whispered. "Lord Stark, you know that I rarely ask you for anything, but this, please grant me this."

The look Eddard Stark gave him was a gaze full of sorrow. Jon hated that.

"You do not need to ask it," the Lord of Winterfell said in a soft tone of voice, "this is the mother and brother of Winterfell's new protectors. They will be honored."

Jon moved Ghost back to his mother, because if Ghost had to die like this, at least he would be with the one who birthed him. Wyl and Heward came forth with torches. Heward moved to clear the snow from the corpses with the toe of his boot, but Wyl just tossed his torch in. The bodies were instantly ablaze.

"By the devil!" Heward swore as he jumped back, just barely avoiding being caught in the hungry flames. He dropped his own torch accidentally. It landed in the snow and sizzled out. Heward turned to Wyl with an angry expression on his face, "Are you trying to do me in?"

But Wyl looked even more frightened than Heward had. He was watching the flames with wide, startled eyes. They seemed to almost roar as they reached for the sky, towering high above the two guardsmen.

"I've never seen anything catch on this quickly," Wyl whispered with a hint of trepidation in his voice. The men of the North were not craven, but they knew to fear the gods. "It's an ill omen, I tell you."

Jon did not care enough to correct him. His attention was on the fire only, and what the tongues of flame buried within. He thought he might have saw Ghost dancing within the smoke, looking almost happy, though that was likely just a trick of light and Jon's wishful thinking.

It felt painful, as if his blood had turned to fire and he was the one in the blaze. He thought he should cry, but the tears themselves would not come, as if they'd all been licked dry by the flames before him.

When the affair was done and they were riding back to Winterfell, Jon could not bring himself to speak. Robb and a few of Father's men tried to engage him, but Jon's noncommittal answers wore at them and even Robb retreated to play with Grey Wind.

Father, Robb, Bran, and even some of Father's men kept casting him worried looks as they rode back. Jon wished that they wouldn't.

When they arrived back in Winterfell, when Arya ran up to meet them, when Sansa peeked out the window and even Lady Catelyn came out with little Rickon, Jon thought he might have felt some degrees better.

Ghost was dead, but they were all alive.

Alive. Father, Robb, Arya. All alive. It was all his prayers and more, and he almost dared not believe it except that when he dismounted and Arya came flying into his arms, she'd never felt more real. And when Rickon began shrilling, he was certain that the high pitched cries would wake any sleeper.

When Hullen came to smack Jon around the head for actually doing something as inane as following off a horse, and when Rodrik jokingly mumbled that Jon needed more balance training, Jon was sure he could not have imagined these details.

The horrible words that had appeared on parchment and the grisly tale that Donal Noye told him after he'd come back from beyond-the-wall had never seemed so far away.

Or was it all a fantastic dream? It hardly seemed possible that he had—what? Been granted the right to change the past? The idea was inconceivable. It seemed much safer not to think about it, because Jon did not think he could bear having it all ripped away from him all over again.

And yet, if—if by some chance this might be what he thought it was—

_I could change everything._


	2. Banquet

Chapter I

The first test came the night of the King's party landing in Winterfell.

As the days went murmuring passed it was harder and harder to think that he was in a dream, and Jon accepted that the gods had given him another chance. Even he could not dream a dream this long. He was determined not to squander it. He would prevent his family's dire fate whatever it took.

Jon was seated with the squires at the banquet as he'd been before, but his feelings towards the royal entourage was vastly different from when he'd seen them the first time.

When his Father entered with the Queen on his arm, Jon felt hatred flush up through his lungs so strong that he nearly choked. It scared him, because he didn't think he was capable of this depth of darkness.

_But why should I not be?_ He asked himself. _They destroyed my family._

_Another lifetime,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Ygritte warned.

_This too, if I let it,_ he argued back.

It was probably a good thing he was not sitting with them.

He managed to keep his expression completely stoic as the rest of the royal family swept past, but it was a near thing. When Joffrey began laughing at something that Theon had said, Jon realized he could not stay in the Hall a moment later.

He pushed himself up from his seat with mumbled excuses that no one cared to hear, and quickly stalked out. Nobody noticed him go.

Outside the castle was dark and deserted, and Jon was suddenly, inexplicably, reminded of The Wall. He exhaled shakily, but his breath did not mist as it had for the past two years. Winter was coming, but it was not here yet.

More than ever he wished for the company of Ghost. Who else could understand?

And then, as if they'd heard his prayers, or to send him a curse, the gods answered him.

Or rather, a half man did.

"Boy," a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, the bleeding yellow light from the windows striking shadowed planes across his face and giving his grin a sinister cast.

There were reports that he and Sansa had conspired to poison Jeoffrey. There were reports that he'd killed Tywin in the end.

Jon was conflicted. He held no love for the Lannisters, yet they were Tyrion's kin, and Jon was unsure how much he could trust a kinslayer.

"You don't like the look of me," Tyrion observed, his grin fading some.

"Not for the reasons you think," Jon said, remembering their conversations on his journey to the Night's Watch. Dwarfs and bastards. It felt like a lifetime ago. "I don't trust your family."

He had not meant to give the warning, and yet the warning came anyhow. There seemed to be some part of him which yearned to give this Lannister at least, some courtesy.

Surprise flashed across the dwarf's mismatched eyes. And then the moment was gone and all that was plain on his face was amusement, "Well well, that's something I don't hear every day. I'm being equated to my siblings. I should be honored I suppose."

"Don't be," Jon said shortly.

The dwarf's lips stretched wide, and then he threw back his head and let out a booming laugh. It was surprising for his little body.

"You boy, are a strange one," he said in bemusement when he'd finished. He pushed himself off the ledge, and leaped off in a tumbling roll. It was just as impressive as when he'd done it the first time. When he'd straightened and brushed off the seat of his pants, the look he gave Jon was contemplative. "You've made your dislike of the Queen's family clear, to the Queen's own brother I might add. And yet you're being almost courteous about it. Well, I suppose if it helps any, I don't trust my family either. Tyrion Lannister."

"I know." Jon paused, and then— "Jon Snow."

"The bastard eh?"

"I think you knew that before you introduced yourself," Jon said warily, searching Tyrion's eyes. He hadn't noticed the first time, but he was certain of it now.

"So I did," Tyrion agreed amiably. And then his eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward as if to study Jon's face, "Though I daresay you have more of the north in you than any of your brothers."

The dark haired boy shifted uneasily. Tyrion had said that the first time too. Jon remembered because nobody else had said it to him before then, and nobody after. He had been so pleased.

Jon felt nothing of that now.

He was not like Eddard Stark. If he were, he'd be at the Wall, and not playing family here. The real threat were the Others, and yet Jon could think of nothing but how to prevent the destruction of Winterfell.

"Made you uncomfortable have I?" Tyrion asked with an unnervingly perceiving glance, "Now that's curious."

"The north can't be held by dark hair and grey eyes," Jon retorted, defensive instincts automatically rearing. He thought of how Robb had once been the King of the North. Of the hardships Jon knew came with command and how his brother must have spectacularly overcame them.

"No," Tyrion agreed again, "but I do have the feeling that you have much more than that." He favored the younger boy with one last grin before turning and sauntering back into the feast with a tune playing on his lips.

For a long moment the four-and-ten child could do nothing but stare after him, wondering how much the sly Lannister had understood about him from that one short conversation. He had been uncannily good at it the first time around, but the last thing Jon wanted now was for someone to be able to see within the abyss of all that he had experienced. He was not sure he himself could handle it.

_You have more of the north in you than any of your brothers._

Jon closed his eyes and exhaled unsteadily. If that were true, he would not be so afraid to face the truths he knew.

When he went to bed that night it was an uneasy sleep he had. He kept dreaming of crypts, entrapping towers, and the oppressing cold. The last nightmare that fell upon him was of Melisandre's fire, burning through him just as he'd set Ghost to the torch.

He awoke sweaty and shaky. It was made worse at breakfast, when Robb whispered to him what the King had announced last night.

Father was going to become the King's Hand. Sansa was going to marry Jeoffrey. And then Lord Stark himself said that Arya and Bran would also be leaving for King's Landing within the week.

The eggs served at the table that morning suddenly became impossible to swallow.

"Jon?" Robb asked as Jon set down his plate. It was not even half eaten. He searched his brother's face, before his lips curled into an all too familiar frown. "I know it's not ideal, but I'm not being allowed to go either, am I? At least we'll still have each other."

"Your lady mother would never allow me to stay," Jon replied in a dead tone of voice, head bowed and fist clenched so tightly at his knees that he was drawing blood. It was not the reason he felt like he was going to retch, but it would suffice for Robb. "When Father leaves, I'll have no place here."

Jon did not have to see Robb's face to know that he'd hurt him.

"Jon, Jon you can't honestly believe that. I know that you and Mother have had… differences, but I want you here. You'll always have a place in Winterfell, so long as there is a Stark."

Jon could not help but smile wanly at that. It was an old phrase of their Father's, and to hear it from Robb's lips was to understand that despite looking like a Tully, Robb was every inch a Stark. He looked up. Seeing Robb's expression, Jon almost agreed to stay.

There was a command there that he had seen on Ned Stark, Qhorin, Stannis. There was a reason that Father's bannerlords had all declared for Robb and made him King of the North, and Jon realized now that this was it. But more than that, there was a fondness in those eyes that begged Jon to remember how they'd spent half their days together, and told him he was always welcome now.

But he could not stay. He had to prevent Father's death. Their Father's.

He reached over and clasped Robb's hands in his own, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze, "Excuse me."

And then he was up and out of the Hall before Robb could reply. Jon had no doubt it would be an angry one. But he wasn't allowed to be swayed now.

He ambushed his father the first chance he got, pulling him aside by saying that he had urgent business. Father, who had been talking with Jory at the head of the courtyard, bemusedly waved the captain of his guard off.

"You left the dining hall rather abruptly yesterday," Ned commented lightly. "Is something the matter?"

Jon felt genuine surprise at the statement, "You noticed?"

"Of course I did, Jon. You are my son."

Jon could not help the flash of bitterness that swept across him. _Then why did you hide me away yesterday?_ He wanted to ask. But it was childish and not worthy of him. Jon had already experienced his Father's death once, and he did not wish to squander this chance with arguments also.

"I want to go to King's Landing," Jon said bluntly.

The bemusement was quick to drain from Ned Stark's face. He hesitated, "Jon, you know I would like nothing more than to take you but…"

_But you are a bastard. You would disgrace the halls._

"Please," Jon breathed. "Please Father. I have a bad feeling about this journey."

Ned only shook his head, smiling wanly as he ruffled Jon's hair, "Have you been listening to Osha's stories with Bran again? I promise, everything will be alright."

No, Jon thought. No, you're going to die there.

He changed tracts.

"Lady Stark will not let me stay in Winterfell."

"Rob…"

"—is not your lady wife, you know that."

"I have discussed this with Catelyn. She'll be accommodating."

"But she'll not want me."

"You have no reason to be in King's Landing."

Jon paused. That was true. But he was never without an argument. "I'll be a squire to one of the knights there—"

"…just so that you can be at King's Landing?" Ned asked slowly. The look he gave Jon was severe, "You would dishonor both yourself and the knight."

The boy of four-and-ten flinched.

Ned sighed, "Jon, I will be fine. We all will be fine. Robert is a personal friend of mine and will no doubt provide ample security. Besides that, I am taking our best swordsmen with me."

"What does it hurt for me to go too, then?" Jon asked, unsure if he should be shamed or relieved that his father had understood the true reasoning behind his questions.

"They will be hard on you in King's Landing."

"Do you think I care? I can bear it."

"I think you think you feel that you are prepared, but Jon, understand this. It is not that I doubt you, but whatever words Winterfell has said about you, they were at least aware that you were their lord's son. King's Landing will have no such check."

There was no such thing. Ned couldn't possibly expect Jon to believe that the barring was purely due to… what? The possibility of having his feelings hurt? "Why are you so against me going?"

Ned's back was rigid from tension, "It simply serves no purpose for you to be there."

There was only one answer then. Jon felt his fists clench at his sides.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Jon asked bitterly.

"No I—what, no!" Ned Stark stepped forward, and put two strong hands on Jon's shoulders. His very grip commanded Jon to look up, and so he did. His Father's face had never been more solemn, "You are my blood, remember that. I have never, and will never be ashamed of you,"

Jon's mouth felt dry. Somehow it felt wrong to ruin this moment with more pleadings, and yet he had to try. "Then why will you not let me go to King's Landing?"

Ned sighed, and pulled back.

"I said no Jon," he said, gently but still firmly, "and that answer is final. Now act like the Stark you are and accept your duty."

He was left without a way to reply. Father never listened to anything more when he used that tone. It was the tone that he used when deciding someone's execution and brought the cool kiss of Ice to their necks. Any further argument would only lose him respect in his father's eyes now.

For one clarifying moment, Jon thought he understood the frustration Stannis must have felt when dealing with him.

Father went then and Jon was left standing alone in the courtyard. He was sure he looked pathetic, because he'd never felt it more than he did now.

No, no, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Why did Father not allow him to go if he were not ashamed as he said? Jon felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, although he knew it was unworthy of him to cry over something like this. But he could not allow Father to die and Arya to eventually come under the power of Bolton.

He swiped at his eyes, to wipe away the wetness that signalled his weakness for all the world to see. Jon took a breath. There was one more option still open to him. There was one other who could grant him leave for King's Landing.

It felt dirty to do this rather than ask his father directly, but it was better to sully his honor than to allow the events at King's Landing to unfold without trying to stop it.

Jon left the courtyard then to find Robert Baratheon.

The king was, surprisingly, quite hard to find.

He was in the dining hall, he was watching his son spar down in the practice yard, he was in his queen's chambers.

The last one made Jon blush despite all that he'd done with Ygritte, much to the amusement of the men who told him.

"Mayhap you outta go in 'ere anyway," Cayn said with a wink, "I 'ear that our Queen is 'omething worth seein' in 'er natural self, even if the king irons yer eyes out afterwards."

"He'll show up sooner or later," Fat Tom said, taking pity on Jon, "there's always supper too. He sits by your father doesn't he? You can ask whatever you want of the king then."

Jon didn't have to heart to tell Fat Tom about his new seating arrangements for the duration of the king's stay.

"Thanks," he replied with a weak smile, before hurrying off to another section of the castle.

He rounded the corner in the exact moment another man did the same, and back to four-and-ten, Jon stood no chance. A oomph of surprise escaped him as Jon collided with a bigger, stouter body, and Jon nearly lost his balance.

A hand caught his arm and jerked him upright, giving Jon's body equilibrium again.

"Well well," Benjen Stark said in bemusement as he let go of the boy's limb, "Someone's going somewhere in a hurry. Lots of things to do in this castle I suppose, especially with the King's family here. But I didn't see you at the feast yesterday."

For a moment all Jon could do was stare, mouth slightly agape.

Benjen Stark looked as he always did, sharp featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but that ever present hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He looked nothing like Jon had last seen him, stern faced and nothing except ill humor in his gaze, and that was only if Jon could even remember his uncle's face at all.

It was only now that Jon vaguely recalled that the first time around, Uncle Ben had arrived in Winterfell sometime around when the King did.

Stupid, stupid, he berated himself, how could you forget about Uncle Ben?

But he had. Benjen had been dead for nearly two years before Jon had been given this opportunity, and Jon had moved on from him. He'd come to terms with his uncle's death somewhere around his time with the wildings. Benjen hadn't been with them, and while Jon had been determined to find him, neither was he naïve.

Robb, Arya, Bran. Those deaths had been a harsh strike after Jon had made it back from Mance Ryder's camp, but Benjen's and Eddard Stark's deaths had by then become a numbing pain. His lord father being alive had been evident from the beginning of this madness, when Jon chose to believe it, but he had completely forgotten about the people out of sight.

"Jon?" Benjen asked, his brows furrowing as a hint of concern entered his voice, "You alright son?"

_I'm not your son,_ he had said last time. He suddenly remembered that with crystal clarity.

"Fine," he swallowed. "I'm just—I haven't seen you for a while."

The smile Uncle Ben gave in reply was wry, "Well, Old Mormont likes to keep us busy up at the Wall. Here now though, and that's what matters, eh?"

"Yeah," Jon said thickly. Once again he felt guilt consume him. By choosing to go to King's Landing, he was willfully abandoning Uncle Ben, even though he could change his death now.

He wanted more than anything to warn Uncle Ben and to tell him not to go out on that first patrol when he got back. But he'd sound mad, and while Jon knew that his uncle loved him, he also knew Benjen Stark well enough to know that the man would never believe him.

_Do you think your brother's war is more important than ours?! _Mormont had asked of him.

No, Jon thought morosely. No it isn't, but I can't—I can't abandon them again. I can't. I'm not strong enough.

But there was one thing he could do.

"Actually Uncle Ben—if it's possible, there's something I want to ask you…"

"Oh," the amused edge of Ben Stark's voice was back, "and what pray tell, is that? Is it a girl? 'Cause Jon, I'm sorry to say that I've taken my vows, and I can't give you much advice on girls."

Jon smiled in spite of himself. Uncle Ben was always able to make him feel better. But Jon couldn't let himself be distracted this time.

The wall, the wall, the wall. The first thing Jon had done when he accepted that he might actually have gained a second chance was to write a letter for the wall. He'd been planning on sending it with one of Maester Luwin's ravens, but this was better, wasn't it?

He dug about in his pockets, and a moment later he brought out a sealed and folded letter. He looked at it for a long time before holding it out to Benjen.

"It's a letter for Maester Aemon. I heard something about him from one of your other brothers. I just wanted…" The fourteen year old boy shrugged and looked away, as if embarrassed. Let Benjen think that Aemon too was a bastard from a noble house. "I wanted to ask him a few things, is all."

For a moment Benjen looked hesitant, but then he nodded and took the letter, "Very well, I'll deliver it to him."

He wrote about the Others and the way to kill them. Fire and dragonglass. He wrote about the wildlings and their preparations for an eventual attack. And that the Night Watch should consider treating with them.

He'd even hinted towards Sam Turly, being quick to warn against judging a character by a single trait such as their ability with swords. He wrote that with the Wall as it was, someone who began craven might still learn courage and be of great help to the stewards.

To seal it off and to assure that the letter would be taken seriously, Jon addressed it to Aemon Targaryen.

He prayed that it would be enough.

He and Uncle Ben talked about other, more inconsequential things for a while after that. Jon savored it. But then the time for the mid day meal rolled around and Jon remembered again that he had to find the king, and he bade farewell to Ben.

There were others he came across in his search. Robb in the courtyard who stoutly ignored him and Theon with him who traded a few barbs with him before Jon went on his way again. He saw Arya and Sansa too in their lessons. Ayra spied him in the open door and made a face, and Jon couldn't help but grin back before departing from that wing of the castle as well.

He even spotted Bran sitting by himself with Summer at the far side of the castle. He had a bucket of water and a ragged cloth, as well as a bar of soap near him. There was no doubt he was trying to give his direwolf pup a wash.

"Hey Jon!" The copper haired boy of seven called out as he raised his hand in a wave, "Want to help me clean him?"

"Sorry Bran," Jon replied with only the slightest hint of a fond smile dusting his lips, "but I—"

And the words froze on his tongue, as if the paralyzing ice of beyond-the-wall had somehow crept into Winterfell.

Bran.

He had fallen at around this time hadn't he?

Jon felt his heart thudding in his throat.

"—'m not very good with cleaning animals," the boy of four-and-ten changed dazedly, "although I promise I'll try my best. Would you still have me?"

"Of course Jon!" Bran beamed, his entire face lighting up, "It's not like I'm a master of the art either. We can learn together."

Jon smiled gently and made his way over to Bran, settling down beside him and his direwolf pup. Bran held out a spare wash cloth to him and Jon took it with a wry shake of his head, "Let's hope Summer feels the same way as you."

"Summer?"

"O—oh." Jon searched his mind. He couldn't recall, but it was entirely possible that Bran hadn't named his pup yet. He grinned sheepishly, "Sorry, his coat just reminded me of the season."

"No, no." Bran looked down at the direwolf in his lap, a soft smile on his face, "It does suit him. You're right Jon. I think I will name him Summer."

Jon watched as Bran gently began washing his direwolf pup, looking for all the world like the most tender hearted person in the entirety of Westeros. Jon had already decided to save his life this time, but what about the fall?

Bran had dreamt of knights, and even if he did not die at Winterfell, he would never be able to be much of anything without his legs.

Jon might be able to prevent that, too. Bran never fell. Jon was sure that the reason for it had to do with the King's company. He could watch Bran until then, and when the King left, Bran would be safe again.

"Summer!" Bran laughed as the direwolf pup suddenly keened and shook its fur in displeasure, splashing him with beads of water. He leapt up, scowling at the little creature, "You behave. We're only trying to help."

Jon's gaze followed his little brother. Even this Bran would not be able to do if he fell.

_But._

He knew how this worked. Robert Baratheon did not know him. His father had made sure of that. If Jon were to make a request out of nowhere, the king might consider it, but there was no way he would let Jon go to King's Landing after his best friend would not tolerate it. Jon would need to ask the king in private, so that King Robert may make a promise then and be unable to take it back later, when his father protested. But to do that, he needed to spend all of his waking time in the king's company, for the king was not left alone often.

And that meant leaving Bran.

He could not be constantly with them both.

"You should hold on to him," Jon heard himself say. "Here, I'll soap while you keep him still."

"But he's all wet," Bran said doubtfully.

"You're already wet," Jon pointed out. "Might as well go all the way. Besides, this way you can bond with him more."

"You're right, aren't you?" Bran laughed. With a grin on his face he leapt onto Summer and grappled with him until the wolf was still. Summer let out a whine. Bran only laughed more.

It was an impossible choice yet again. Ride with Robb or defend his sworn brothers? Be with Ygritte or do his duty? Become Lord of Winterfell or keep his vows? Save Arya or…

Jon closed his eyes, and chose.


	3. Winterfell

Chapter II

In the end Jon parted with his father and his half-siblings just as he had before, although this time it was not he who was leaving but them. The farewell was big, though no tears were shed. They were all too strong for that. Eddard Stark shared a private word with Lady Catelyn, while the guards who were staying made solemn promises with the guards who were going. The siblings all whispered their personal goodbyes.

Jon felt as if he were sending them off to their deaths.

He stood in his spot until the sun dipped low enough to taste the earth and the departing party could not be seen any longer, not even as dots on the horizon. Thankfully his morose mood was not noticed amongst the sobriety that had befallen the entirety of Winterfell.

The next day he found it hard to wake.

He had no purpose in Winterfell any longer. Previous his resolve had been in preventing Bran's fall. He had done so, and Bran too had ridden off with the rest. Jon wondered if it was a kindness or not.

He thought about ridding after them often. With a company as big as the king's, they could not have gotten far yet, and he knew he could catch up to them. He could even ride the entire way to King's Landing by himself, for all that mattered.

But he knew it'd come to nothing. Father would only send him back to Winterfell again. He still did not understand Father's absolute refusal and it made him unsure about what would work. But Jon did know that if he were to go, he would have to find a pretext.

He spent his days doing nothing but wrack his brain for a solution and finding none. He had never been more frustrated in his life.

It was how Robb found him one morning, flipping listlessly through books on King's Landing in the library. Jon was reading but scarcely absorbing the words. None of it pertained to what he needed to do.

Robb plopped down on the bench across from him, situating himself on the opposite side of the thin stretch of table.

"Wow Jon," he grinned as he leaned forward to examine the book open in front of the dark haired boy, "that looks like _such_ a fascinating read."

Jon did not even bother glancing up, "Robb."

Robb waited a moment, and when Jon did not say anything more, the red haired boy let out an impatient sigh and snatched the book from his fingers. Jon's head jerked up just in time to see Robb hold the book as far back as he was able, well out of Jon's reach.

Jon reached for it nonetheless, a frown on his face, "How childish are you?"

But Robb's face was serious, "Jon, I've hardly seen you since Father left. Have you even been eating? You never attend meals anymore either."

Did it matter? He had survived on less. When he had been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and rationing their food supply, he had partaken of one meal per day and it was often a bad one at that.

He sighed, and sank back into his seat, "Fine, I'm start attending meals. Now can you give my book back?"

The lines on Robb's face only deepened. His brows furrowed, "Not until you tell me what the matter is."

Jon was tired. He didn't want to think of a lie to tell Robb. "Don't you have your duties as acting Lord of Winterfell?"

"I have my duties as a brother too."

There was no hope, then. Robb was rather like his father in that regard. Once he had his mind set on something, nothing would shake him from his resolve. Jon's lips quirked. That attribute was causing him more trouble than he would have cared to for.

"I'm fine, really. Just missing our family and burying myself in books as a result."

"On the history of King's Landing?" Robb asked incredulously.

Jon coloured. Ah, so Robb had read a few words from his text then.

"Look Jon," Robb said as he set the book back down. Jon did not reach for it, as Robb surely predicted. There was no point to it, now. "I know you don't want to be here with mum and Rickon and I." The words were stuttering, an aching sort of pain in every syllable. "But Father's decided to take Sansa and Arya and Bran and there's nothing you or I can do about it. It's not ideal, but you can't—"

"Robb," Jon interrupted softly. "Stop."

Robb stopped.

"You're impossible, you know?" Jon sighed, giving his brother a resigned sort of look.

"Am I?" Robb grinned, although it lacked his usual boisterous edge. It seemed sadder somehow, and Jon knew he was the cause. He hadn't been careful enough. "Well good then. It seems like only the impossible sort can deal with you."

Jon snorted. This time when they shared a smile, it felt like an actual smile.

"It's really not about you," Jon finally said, tracing a pattern on the wood in front of him. He had not wanted to reveal anything, but he should have known better than to try and keep everything from Robb. In a way Jon was relieved to finally share something with someone. It was not a luxury he had ever since he'd been voted as Lord Commander. "I've just heard some really bad things about King's Landing, and I'm worried about Father. I have no doubt he's more than capable of being a good Hand, but you know how he is. Too honorable by half. I'm afraid something's going to happen to him."

"And you want to be there to protect him," Robb realized.

Jon exhaled, "Yeah."

Robb pursed his lips. Quite suddenly he stood, grabbing onto Jon's upper arm and tugging him along.

Jon nearly stumbled with the unexpected motion, "What are you doing?"

"What do you think? Come on."

And then they were out of the library, through the hallways, across the courtyard, and into the shed which held the weapons.

"Are we even allowed in here?" Jon asked. They'd been caught in the armory once when they were boys of seven, and Ser Rodrik had not been painless about their punishment.

"I'm the acting lord of Winterfell now," Robb replied as he gazed critically at the wall of blades on the far side. His fingers fell from his hold on Jon as he moved forward, and took up two of the swords displayed proudly in the armory. He offered one of them to Jon, hilt first, "Here."

Jon took the blade. It was a two handed longsword. The edges gleamed sharp in the planes of sunlight that came trickling through the doorway.

"What's this?" Jon asked warily.

"Well you wanted to protect Father, right? How do you think you'll be able to do so with your sword skills they way they are?"

Something warm settled in his chest. He was touched that Robb believed him so readily. Jon was not sure he would have if the situations were reversed. Still.

"That's not—I mean—" Jon had never thought to protect Eddard Stark by the blade. It was treachery he was worried about.

But now that he thought about it, realistically, what could Jon do? He did not have the authority of the Night's Watch under him this time, or even the respect associated to him by way of being Mormont's steward. The only plus he had over the others in his father's company was that he knew betrayal was coming, and would be extra attentive.

But even if he discovered something, who would listen? Father might have at one point, but not after Jon had ruined his own credibility with his desperation regarding Father's safety. He'd messed up again.

Jon closed his eyes and mentally rearranged his words. When he opened his eyes again, his sword was up and the tip was pointed at Robb's throat, "Let's spar."

It was late afternoon and the sun was still sitting in its heavenly throne, but the courtyard was empty. The master-of-arms Rodrick usually trained his recruits in early morning, and squires had better things to do during this time of day. Jon and Robb had the training ground to themselves.

The sharp hiss of steel filled the yard as Jon and Robb clanged against each other with real sharpened blades for the first ever time. Neither Father or Rodrick had let them use anything but tourney swords before, and the time previous, Jon had left before he could see Robb given the privilege.

It was a minute into the fight that Jon realized he maybe shouldn't have agreed, because he had a huge advantage over Robb in two extra years of sword training at the Wall.

And then the spar became more heated, and Jon realized his 'advantage' wasn't an advantage at all.

In fact, it hindered him more than anything else. Jon kept expecting a longer reach with a height that he no longer had and strength he had not yet built up, He'd sometimes noticed this when he reached for things, but never had it mattered so much as now. His fumbles made him clumsy, and the harder he tried to get a hold of them, the harder it seemed to do so.

Robb managed to defeat him in five minutes, something he had not been able to do in the past few years as Jon really came into swordplay. He bypassed Jon's defences with a trick that Jon had seen coming but had been unable to defend against, and within instants Robb's swordpoint was at Jon's ear.

Robb grinned, and Jon swatted his brother's steel away with his own. And then they were at it again.

It really was a good thing Robb decided to get him back into sparring again, Jon decided as he watched his longsword fly through the air for the second time as Robb disarmed him. If Jon had gotten into a real fight before realizing his old body's limitations, he'd be dead a hundred times over.

With a mocking bow to the victor, Jon walked over to his fallen sword and pulled it up once more. He turned to Robb. "Again."

Robb's eyes glittered with mischief, "Are you sure you can handle it, Snow?"

"Better," Jon said shortly, "I'll win."

And then Jon charged him.

The ring of live steel filled the courtyard again as Jon and Robb went back and forth. Jon was nothing if not an adaptable swordsman, and after two rounds with his shorter reach and untried weapon, he had gotten an acceptable grasp if not familiarity. He wouldn't last more than ten seconds against a skilled swordsman of course, but this was Robb and this was also Robb's first time handling real weapons. With that, Jon was holding his own.

_Still, if Mance Ryder could see me now he'd be weeping,_ Jon thought wryly, _and they'd be tears of laughter._

The third time seemed to be the turning point. Their stalemate broke when Robb lunged and Jon realized he'd seen the move before from Iron Emmet. He quickly sidestepped and snatched the upper part of Robb's sword arm, preventing the other boy from bringing back his blade as the point of Jon's came up against Robb's stomach. If this were a real fight Jon would have skewered him right through.

"Yield," he grinned cheekily.

His sword arm was shaking from the strain of holding up a longsword with one hand. The move had originally been invented for Longclaw, not a two handed weapon. If Robb were an enemy it'd be a messy kill, but a kill nonetheless.

"I yield, I yield," Robb said quickly, his eyes dropping down to Jon's point. Jon allowed his sword tip to drop with a sigh of relief. Robb didn't look put out by the loss as he untangled himself, "I fear that if I didn't say it fast enough you'd have speared me through anyway accidentally. Didn't look like your arm could handle it anymore, eh?"

"Oh shut up," Jon grumbled, and then they were at it again.

They had four more rounds after that, with even victories split to both sides. By the time they were done they were both spent and panting and the sun had dipped indecently close to the horizon. They'd collapsed beside each other after that, not having the energy to stay standing.

"So?" Robb asked after they'd both taken a moment to remember how to draw air into their lungs again. He popped up into an upright sitting position, a slow grin spreading from one ear to the next, "What did you think of using real steel?" He turned the blade by his side, an adoring expression on his face, "I think I've fallen in love with this longsword."

"To be honest," Jon chuckled breathlessly, "I think I'd rather have a bastard."

Robb looked up at him sharply.

Jon grinned, and cuffed his brother playfully, "Oh come on, you don't have to tense up every time the word is used. I think I've come to a startling revelation recently and won't be offended by it anymore. Besides, I was referring to the sword."

Robb's mouth dropped open momentarily before it snapped closed again, a matching grin on his face. He put up a pretense of swatting Jon's hand away, but Jon could tell by the glimmer in his eyes that Robb wasn't really annoyed, "Sure sure Snow, make excuses for your losses."

"Oh? Would you rather I win all our bouts next time?"

"As if you could!"

"Shall we see?"

Robb threw back his head and laughed, "Yes yes, of course Ser Aemon the Dragonknight. But first let's have some supper shall we? I'm starved."

Jon's stomach grumbled in agreement. He picked himself off the floor and brushed off the dirt from his britches, "You may be right."

"Of course I am," Robb replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He too roused himself from his seated position, though the first thing Robb did was to place the longsword he'd borrowed back where it belonged.

Jon followed him, "Oh, and one more thing."

Robb turned to look at him, a half-impatient, half-curious look on his face, "Yeah?"

Jon smiled. He'd recognized the spar for what it was less than halfway through. He knew it to have been more of an effort to cheer him than anything else. Robb always pulled something like this when Lady Catelyn had been too harsh on Jon, or Theon was a particular dick on a given day. "Thanks, Stark."

There was something indescribably soft in Robb's gaze as he replied, "Anytime, Snow."

oOoOoOo

The days following their father's departure somehow fell into routine. Jon took back to sparring every day as he had as Lord Commander, and sometimes Robb would join him. Sometimes he would join Robb for his lordly duties.

The first time it had happened had been quite accidental. With the captain of the guard and father's best men having left with him, it temporarily fell to Rodrik to refill those spots. Jon had slowly but surely become familiarized with his body again, and with that his sword skills seemed to skyrocket. He had begun helping Rodrik with the new trainees.

It was during a training day when Rodrik asked Jon to request something of his brother, and Jon had been more than happy to oblige. He made his way easily to the solar, where Robb spent his time more often than not these days.

Robb was indeed there, but so was Lady Catelyn.

Jon froze in the doorway.

The two were standing with their foreheads nearly touching as they gazed down on some sprawl of papers before them, identical frowns on their faces. Jon took a step back, intending to come back some other time, but the floor beneath betrayed him and gave a loud echoing creek.

Robb's and Lady Catelyn's heads both snapped up. Lady Catelyn's eyes narrowed into a glare. Robb's face cleared.

"Jon!" He greeted.

"You look busy," Jon said carefully.

Robb nodded and waved Jon over, completely missing the subtle out Jon gave them. With a sigh the dark haired boy moved forward, knowing better than to cause a scene in front of the lady wife of Eddard Stark.

"The village of Ekos," Robb said with a pained expression on his face as he tapped the pages on the table. "Their granary was recently ravaged by foxes and they're worried about the upcoming winter. They're asking Winterfell for help but…"

"...they're under Lord Tallhart's jurisdiction," Lady Catelyn replied crispy. It was obvious that she hoped that the sooner they were done with the explanation, the sooner Jon would leave. "He would take it as an offence if Winterfell were to step in."

"Lord Tallhard is apparently a prideful man and has sent Ekos some grain to take care of it himself. It will keep them through the winter," Robb agreed, but it was obvious he wasn't pleased. At Jon's look he handed his brother a sheet of paper that had been sitting on his table. It was an account of what was sent.

Jon scanned the figures. It would indeed be enough for Ekos to ration through the winter, but they could not afford to lose any more grain, and there would definitely be some starved babes. It was true that this was the north, and Jon had dealt with much smaller numbers when trying to feed both the wildings and his black brothers, but it was not winter yet and Ekos had no reason to starve.

"It's just, Jon, the villagers came all this way to beg for food. Am I to send them back with nothing?"

"They do not need anything more," Lady Catelyn said shortly. "Robb, you are not a boy any longer. You cannot help everyone. Winterfell might require those storages for other villages in more need than Ekos."

"Lady Catelyn is right," Jon agreed. Robb sighed at the response and looked resigned, as if he had known the answer but was simply hoping to delay it. Jon smiled briefly, "But Robb, you're also right."

Robb looked at him, surprised.

"We can't send the villagers back with nothing," Jon said amiably as he set down the account paper. "They crossed a fair distance to travel to Winterfell and we'd lose Ekos's allegiance if we turned them back with nothing but a few pretty words. Hey look—" He slid a map of the north from the tangle of papers and tapped Tallhard's territory. "Ekos is close to forest, which is probably where the foxes came from. If there's enough to ravage a whole granary, there's enough to entice Tallhard. Don't give them our grain, but give them trained men. They could help the villagers hunt the foxes and then they could either eat them or trade them for more grain."

"Turn the problem into the solution," Robb mulled, "Why had I not thought of that? It seems so obvious in hindsight."

Lady Catelyn let out snort, "You had not thought of it Robb, because it is an idiotic plan. Lord Tallhard will never abide us bringing armed men into his territory, and especially not for a farce like that."

Jon's head jerked up. He felt something inside him freeze. No matter what he did, he could never please Lady Catelyn, and he would have thought that after all his experiences, he would have stopped trying. But there was still some traitorous part of him that wanted her approval beyond all else, and it was that part which was making him feel like a worm in this room.

Her disdainful glare nearly made him retract his statement and flee, leaving Robb's affairs to himself. But the smallfolk.

"Lord Tallhard is a banner lord to Winterfell," Jon said as a reminder, before shaking his head. "But there doesn't need to be any offence to him. The huntsman will be _his_. Winterfell will be the one buying the foxes."

There was a pause.

"That is a sound plan," Lady Catelyn finally said begrudgingly. She turned to Robb, "But it will cost us. Foxes are not worth nearly as much grain as would be needed for Ekos."

But Robb was already thinking about it, "Mum, look. It really probably is for the best. Ekos will love us for practically giving them grain, but Lord Tallhard's pride won't be smashed will it? We'll do it Jon's way. No—let me finish—" Lady Catelyn had opened her mouth to no doubt protest. "I'm not choosing his method because we're boys and it's more fun for me this way. It's honestly the best way to help the smallfolk and it's a bit more costly yes, but it won't bankrupt our coffers. It's the better option, you have to admit."

Lady Catelyn's eyes were as hard as sapphires, but she inclined her head nonetheless, "Very well."

And that was that.

"I thought she was going to set a Faceless Man on me," Jon confided later during dinner, his voice coming out a little unsteady despite himself. He'd stood against Stannis Baratheon, who had been the rightful king of the Iron Throne and had given him a thousand more times to be intimidated, yet it was still Lady Catelyn who shook him the most.

"It was good advice," Robb replied stubbornly as stabbed through a piece of fish. "And I should like to hear your opinion more often. We've had the same kinds of training. And mother—mother's helpful but no matter what she says, she looks at me like a boy. I need—I want—"

For a moment Robb looked indescribably lost, and Jon was starkly reminded of the feelings he had but could not give words to when he'd been named as the Lord Commander.

And that was all it took for Jon to consent to dropping by every once in a while, Lady Catelyn and all.

Sharpening his sword skills again and helping Robb with his lordly duties were not the only things he did. Jon also continued his study of King's Landing, although he was careful not to indulge in an obsessive quality. Robb had dragged him out once and Jon had to say that Robb was right. It had been unhealthy.

He played with Rickon whenever he was not with Lady Catelyn. The child was more than happy to see one of his brothers often at least.

The days continued in an idyllic fashion. Jon never exactly forgot about his ultimate goal to be in King's Landing, but his days were busy and sometimes he would forgo his trip to the library to tell Rickon a tale about the knights of old or to visit the village with Robb. He passed the months happier than he had been in a long time.

And then Tyrion Lannister came riding back into Winterfell.


End file.
